On a wonderfully warm, summer-like May morning an automobile, coming from the West Station, drove up before the Hotel Bristol, depositing there an elegant, slender, dark-haired man. With an experienced glance the hotel manager appraised first the heavy leather trunk and hand baggage, and then the stranger, whose short imperial beard and turned-up mustache, twirled in a manner then unfashionable in Vienna, lent something exotic to his appearance. “From the south of France,” was the manager’s conclusion; by a rapid mental process he translated French francs into kronen, and determined the price of a room in accordance with the astonishing result. To the question, put in French, as to whether a room was to be had, he replied, with an effort to suppress an ironic smile: “Surely, Monsieur--would you like a single room, or a suite with bath? Looking out on the Ring, or to the rear?” Amazed, the newcomer dropped the monocle he had held in his eye. “Why, how’s this? It used to be impossible to get accommodations anywhere without previous reservation!” “My dear sir,”--the manager heaved a profound and sincere sigh--“it must be a year and a half or more since you’ve been in Vienna. Much has changed since then!” The stranger understood immediately, nodded sympathetically, asked for a room with a view of the Ringstrasse, and registered: “Henry Dufresne, artist, from Paris, 29 years of age, Catholic, unmarried.” M. Dufresne bathed, changed his clothes, merrily whistling the latest Parisian song-hit all the while, ordered an excellent breakfast to be served in his room, and, about ten o’clock in the morning, left the hotel, in a noticeably jovial mood. The Frenchman with the little beard seemed to be quite familiar with Vienna, for he swung himself on a tramway car without asking his way; and he appeared to have an excellent command of the German language, for it was evident that he listened with interest to the conversation of those about him. When an old woman began to wail about the high prices, and to revile the authorities in no uncertain terms, M. Dufresne patted her shoulder and, in faultless German and with a Viennese accent, tried to pacify her: “How can you say such things, granny? We must all feel glad and happy, now that we’re rid of the Jews.” But granny now flared up in proper fashion. “The Jews never done me no harm! They could ’a’ stayed in Vienna s’ far’s I was concerned. I had such a good place with a Jewish gen’l’m’n, an’ whenever he brought home a girl an’ made a mess he give me a extra bill. Live an’ let live, he always said--an’ he was right!” There was laughter on the platform, and a jolly chap with a nose that shone wine-red corroborated this testimony: “Yeh, I guess a man c’n say th’t some o’ the Jews was real decent folks.”